


Transitory

by daynight



Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 20:54:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4236249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daynight/pseuds/daynight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the corner of my eye, dark hair, dark smile, laughing snidely at some joke on his cell and playing his music too loud, one speaker dangling. Sleeping on the bus.</p><p>In the corner of my eye, ginger and skinny, walks in the rain and smiles when he shakes the droplets out of his hair. Calls his mom to ask how his dog is doing. Sleeping on the bus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Transitory

There he is. That guy who’s always on the bus. He’s sleeping, like always, with his mouth wide open, catching flies and drooling slightly. Head thrown back, his dark curly hair is brushing the edge of his collar. The line of his tan throat is easy to trace with your eyes, Adams apple rising and falling under thin skin. He’s the picture of confident ease, lazy limbs draped over the seat. Only someone who was pretty sure of themselves could sleep so openly on a crowded bus without fear of anything getting stolen. Then again, maybe he doesn’t have anything to steal. I’d never seen him with a bag or a satchel; he keeps his keys in one pocket, his phone (broken, shattered screen) in the other. He keeps one short, sharp pencil shoved behind an ear. His nails are bitten down and the ends of his fingers are stained black with graphite smears or ink. He must go to the same college as I do, he gets off at the same stop, but whenever I try to ascertain where he is going after departure (which building, which faculty?) he soaks straight into the crowd.

 

Once he got on at a different stop in the morning (same clothes, messed up hair and a red crackle in one of his large eyes that implied a wild night) and he sat down next to me. I froze, achingly aware of where his thigh touched mine on the seat. I’m not sure why. I focused on his knee, dark and slightly grazed, visible through a hole in his jeans that was edged with blood, obviously not there by design. He didn’t even glance in my direction, just stretched slightly, like a complacent animal, and settled his head back on the seat to sleep. The bus jolted whilst turning a corner and his bobbing head landed, quite magically, on my shoulder. His warm breaths condensed on my neck as I struggled with my own respiration. I couldn’t move him. I could feel his ribs digging into my side as he unconsciously tucked in, nose touching my burning skin. We remained in that tableau until our stop, where I gingerly attempted to move, not wanting to disturb him. Someone bustled past to leave and he suddenly awoke, big eyes flying open in a shock of pale colour. From his place on my collarbone, he looked up. He creased his brow in confusion and wrestled himself upright, to mutter ‘sorry’ in an almost unintelligible accent and exit the bus, leaving me equally perplexed and just that little bit colder.

 

‘It’s okay’ I said, to his disappearing back.

 

The only time we ever spoke.

 

* * *

 

 

There he is. The kid with the dark red hair and the button up, those seamlessly ironed khakis. He’s always reading, reading some thick book on the civil war or birds or poetry. They’re heavy looking with yellowed pages and intricate illustrations, diagrams that he pores over with bright eyes. He reads them for the entire bus journey, sometimes almost forgetting his stop and having to hastily shove them into his backpack in a panic as he makes a leap for the bus door. He’s always got a smile for the friends who occasionally join him on his way, clean and wholesome looking guys who jostle each other and make good-natured jokes. Momma’s boys, I think, with a sneer to hide the slight jealousy at his easy-going grin. He’s got a long nose and long fingers and pale skin like he never sees the sun and when he leaves the bus he walks straight to the sciences building or to the library. I know because I watch him. He doesn’t notice, with his head up in the clouds, daydreaming and dragging his feet. I stub out my cigarette and begin another, observing.

 

How can he not know he was followed? He's the type who wouldn't notice, who would assume that nothing bad could ever happen to them. I hope that it doesn't. I'll watch out, maybe.

 

I wonder what his hands feel like, boyishly callused at the palm but soft fingered. That time, he smelled like detergent and toothpaste, didn’t he?

 

Don’t make a habit of this, too.

 

* * *

 

 

Winter, white skies, scarves and gloves (sent by mother) but with the woollen fingers decapitated so that I still have the dexterity to turn the pages of my books. The bus churns its way through the grit and snow. My nose is painfully red and the coughing is unfortunately frequent and involuntary. It’s exam period, crunch time and I can’t remember the last time I slept for a full night. Poetry and the physical attributes of nightingales have been discarded for textbooks and study guides. It’s difficult but not unbearably so. Sid tells me that it will all be over soon and then we can be kids again. It’s good enough to coax a weak smile.

 

I read and read, head woozy as the bus windows fill up with snow. I let my mind drift. I close my eyes. Someone sits next to me but I can barely notice a thing.

 

I open my eyes. I blink. Perhaps I am dreaming? I appear to be horizontal, with my cheek against something softer than the harsh material of the bus seats. It’s someone’s dark jeans, ripped at the thigh. I can feel my face heating immediately. I hope he can’t feel it. My head is on his lap, with his arm on my shoulder, steadying me. It's warm. I look up, entirely disorientated and see that he is staring straight at me with that impenetrable, almost disconcerting gaze.  Catching me staring, he quickly averts his eyes and scrubs his nose, awkward. He whispers 'shit' under his breath. 

 

‘It hasn’t been long.’ He said. I began to wonder how I got in that position, a question that he answered immediately as if he was reading my mind. ‘You didn’t look comfortable so I let you rest on my shoulder and then your head kind of fell. I wasn’t tryin’ to - ’ His accent is thick, hard to decipher and he looks embarrassed trying to explain.

 

I am embarrassed too. Very embarrassed. Hot all over.

 

‘Thanks.’ I mean it. He bites on his lip, split right in the middle in a tiny red line.

 

‘S’okay.’ His eyes are roving everywhere but my direction as I collect myself, sitting up and finding my bag. 

 

‘Don’t work too hard.’ He says, cheeks a little flushed and pulling on the drawstrings of his hoodie.

 

A pause.

 

‘What’s your name?’ I reply and he breaks out a smile.

**Author's Note:**

> pure mature cheddar. tryin something new with the writing style.


End file.
